


Audition

by Kahvi



Category: Sherlock (BBC)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-31
Updated: 2011-03-31
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:38:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the following prompt: <i>Sherlock Holmes (any), Holmes/Watson, Holmes/fake!Watson, Watson leaves. Sherlock finds someone and molds them into his perfect replacement.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Audition

The boy was no more than 27 if he was a day, and honestly, this alone should have been enough for Sherlock to send him on his way. There was a touch of the cynical about his bright smile, however, and his eyes were a most particular shade of deep, dark blue.

“I did specify no younger than 35,” Sherlock said, with no real sting to it, opening the door. It had been a long day, and none of the five candidates he’d seen had lasted longer than the preliminary interview; one not even that. (A beard? Honestly.)

“I could use the work,” the boy replied, taking his hat off (muted blue-grey, clashing garishly with his auburn fake leather jacket) as he entered, pushing past Sherlock without so much as a by-your-leave.

That, too, was good.

* * *

  
They took a seat in the lounge, which had not been cleaned since – well – for a fair few weeks, at any rate, Sherlock taking careful note of the young man’s reactions. He gave his name simply as Jack – odd how people did not seem to have surnames, these days – and politely refrained from mentioning the state of their environs, despite his near obsessive urge to do something about it. Possibly useful, possibly not; that remained to be seen.

Sherlock offered to make tea, and Jack enthusiastically accepted, a fact Sherlock noted with a certain degree of satisfaction. Soon, they were sipping Earl Grey and chatting pleasantly – as Jack would see it, not noticing the many deeply personal questions Sherlock sneaked in among the pleasantries. Jack was single, it was discovered, probably at least bisexual, if not exclusively gay, but that much Sherlock had deduced already. He was a vegetarian, left-handed, fond of animals – dogs, more than anything – had a healthy distrust of authorities while still maintaining a somewhat naïve, almost childish devotion to Queen and Country.

“You’re an army man,” Sherlock stated, as they neared the end of their cups, as well as the current strain of conversation.

“Yes,” Jack smiled, face beaming. “How did you know?”

“Your CV.” Sloppy. A point against him, that, and yet, there was the way the muscles in his neck moved when he smiled like that, as though the strain of maintaining the expression was almost too much for them… And now, they relaxed, Jack’s face falling.

“Oh, right.” He looked around, suddenly nervous. A half-truth, then? Not an outright lie; he was too smart for that. “I didn’t exactly… what I mean to say was…”

“Medical discharge,” Sherlock said, simply, to Jack’s evident relief.

“Yeah. That’s right. Clinical depression. Erm…. I hope that won’t be a…”

“Which you faked.”

Jack frowned, eyes widening. “Sorry?”

“You faked it. You show no signs of clinical depression, there’s no indication of it in your medical history…”

“Hang on; you checked my medical history?”

“Of course I did; do you think I’d hire someone to work for me without knowing their medical history?” Sherlock leaned back, observing. Possibly the boy was right to be outraged, but in any case, he was controlling his evidently considerable temper admirably, which is what Sherlock wanted to see.

Jack hesitated, eyes shifting, clearly considering his options. Finally, he nodded. Good. Now, to settle the matter at hand…

“If you managed to fake a case of clinical depression, you’re either a very accomplished actor, which I doubt, or they wanted to get rid of you anyway. Not well suited for the army, were you?” Sherlock looked up at him through steepled fingers.

Shifting in his seat, Jack shrugged. Loyalty. Another point in his favor.

“Let me make it easier for you. Over a period of several months, you sent a series of complaints to your superiors regarding the treatment of openly homosexual soldiers in your unit. When your complaints were not heard and you received no satisfactory reply, you started,” Sherlock leaned forward, watching Jack lean back in turn with some amusement, “ _making trouble_. Didn’t you? You always worked within the rules, which gave them nothing with which to charge you, and you refused to compromise, so in the end, they offered you a deal.” He raised an eyebrow in question. “Is that about right?”

Staring, expression dithering between annoyance, offense and admiration, Jack nodded. “Medical discharge and a stipend; let me finish my studies here in London.” While he blushed, he kept his eyes on Sherlock – expecting ridicule, but not accepting it. “I’m training to become a nurse.”

Sherlock smiled. “And how,” he asked, crossing his legs casually, “is that working out for you so far?”

Again, Jack shrugged, obviously his personal shorthand for ‘I don’t want to talk about this’. Fair enough; a sign of pride, which was a further positive. Sherlock knew, anyway; he’d been in touch with Jack’s college through a regular informant – apparently, the money that should have gone into tuition, had ended up elsewhere, like the motorbike parked just around the corner, and several popular London clubs. _Thrill seeker._ Sherlock tried not to smile.

“That’s all right; you needn’t answer.” Tension on the boy’s face, fear that he’d bolloxed up, blown it, as it were. Sherlock let it remain, a little fascinated by the spectacle of human emotion, then let it go. “You’re hired.”

The boy grinned. Widely; showing even, but yellowing, teeth. “Fantastic! That’s… That’s all right!” He got up, reaching out a hand to Sherlock, who shook it. “You had me there,” he added, probably not noticing how he wiped the hand with which he’d shook Sherlock’s on the side of his jeans.

“Yes,” Sherlock told him, smiling mirthlessly, “I expect I did.”

* * *

  
“This will be your room.”

Jack stood outside the door Sherlock was holding open, peering inside. “Fair enough.” He glanced at Sherlock, carefully schooling his expression to nonchalance, thinking it wouldn’t be noticed. “Didn’t say anything about room and board.” He licked his lips; a nervous tick, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile.

“You won’t exactly be working regular hours. I think it only fair, don’t you?”

Jack thought for a moment, clearly not comfortable with this arrangement, but what could he do? He could no longer afford the swank flat he’d been renting in Kensington, Sherlock knew, and the pay Sherlock offered had been carefully adjusted so as to make outside lodgings a bit of a pain, at least for someone with Jack’s acquired taste. “All right,” he said, finally. “Why not?”

They smiled at one another, heading back downstairs. Jack was carefully observing him, Sherlock noted with satisfaction. Not that he would be able to read anything, but the effort was commendable.

“That was quite impressive," Jack started as they entered the lounge, “what you did, then.”

Sherlock, knowing exactly what he was talking about, feigned ignorance. “Oh? What do you mean?”

“The…” Jack waved his hands, “deduction. Thing. With the army and all. Lads down the pub said you were something, but I never thought…”

“’The lads down the pub’,” Sherlock interrupted, “what pub?” _No, it couldn’t be; he had been so careful..._

Jack made a non-committal gesture. “The lads at my local. They were the ones who told me about the job.”

“I see.” Sherlock sat down on the sofa, considering his options. He had sent word round to a number of pubs, it was true; very likely, this was just a coincidence. _But it might not be._

Jack did not sit down, choosing, instead, to lean against the wall by the door. “Pardon me for asking, but didn’t you use to have a,” there was a barely audible pause, “companion?”

Sherlock crossed his legs. “I’m not sure I follow.” _Relax_ , he told himself, _you haven’t done that for more than a year, and you paid them off handsomely._ Still, there was a risk...

“Army man. Doctor. Name of John Watson. My ex girlfriend used to read the blog.”

“Did she.” _Bisexual_.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. None of my business, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, simply, getting some pleasure out of the way Jack’s eyes widened. “You’re quite right. It isn’t. Anyway, you needn’t concern yourself with him. He won’t be back.”

“Oh?” Testing boundaries. Good.

Sherlock uncrossed his legs, opening his body language. Establishing trust, as it were. “There was a woman.”

Jack offered a careful grin. “That’s the way it goes, innit?”

“Quite possibly.” Sherlock watched as the boy pried himself away from the wall, walking closer.

“So when do I begin?”

“Whenever you like.”

Jack nodded, stepping closer still. “How about right now?”

Sherlock met his eyes, seeing only blunt determination. “If you like.”

And that’s when it happened.

With something of a smirk, Jack plonked himself down next to Sherlock, leaning in close. Enough for his breath to hit Sherlock’s ear. “I’ll bet you’ve missed this, then,” he mumbled, putting a hand on Sherlock’s thigh, then instantly yelping, pulling it away and cradling it protectively. Blood ran between his fingers, spilling out onto his jeans and down to the carpet. He opened his mouth, about to shout, but Sherlock was quicker.

“ _DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH ME,_ ,” Sherlock yelled, still holding the flick knife. His thigh burned from where that little prick’s hand had been; that dirty little hand with its probing fingers, and how _dare_ he, when no one else – _no one…_

“You _fucking lunatic;_ you stabbed me!”

“You _DO NOT_ touch me!”

“Don’t give me that!” Jack scrambled to his feet, still clutching at his injured hand. The cut wasn’t deep, but Sherlock had aimed for maximum pain. Even after the small scar had faded, it would serve as a useful reminder. “I know what you’re like; what you want! Some of the guys I talked to, they’d come round here before, told me what you had them do. No touching, they said, but I figured, now you’d shacked up with this Watson guy, you’d be wanting…”

Sherlock glared. “ _Get out_ ”

“Fucking try and stop me,” Jack muttered, rambling something about the police which he’d never go through with. And after all, who would believe him?

Left to himself on the sofa, Sherlock sighed, pulled out his phone and began to consider the remaining candidates.


End file.
